Une Histoire de Deux Vivres
by RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow
Summary: ...It was the worst of times... Enjolras, arrested simply for existing as he does, is accused and sent to la Guillotine. A group of radical students, horrified by their leader's conviction, attempt an escape that lands them with another, a drunkard named Sydney Carton. An inspector, Javert, is sent to find them, and they will never be safe again. Set in 1793, during the Terror.
1. Chapter 1

**Une Histoire de deux Vivres (a tale of two lives)**

**AU fic, in which LM and ATOTC are somehow at the same time, 1793. I think I have done a good enough job that, if you aren't familiar with A Tale of Two Cities, you can understand and enjoy it, but if this is not the case please tell me. Anything in bolded parenthesis is me, explaining things to you.**

It was raining that night, pouring cold sheets of wetness to the dard Paris streets. A lone figure, not very tall, in a dark coat was walking slowly towards a house. He paused for a long time, perhaps five or ten minutes, in front of it before reaching a sopping wet arm up to knock.

The door was opened a crack, the thrust open as a flustered young woman, maybe twenty or so, pulled him inside. She quickly shut the door after him. (**to non ATOTC-fans, here is the info. The man, Sydney Carton, has just gone to see Lucie, the love of his life who is married to another, to tell her of his plan. His plan is going into La Force and swapping places with her husband, who is condemned to death, so that she might be happy again.**)

He stayed no longer than twenty minutes at the very most, then he hurried out. As he turned, his face, which had mostly dried form being inside, appeared to have water running down it as if he was crying.

But then, he stepped back into the rain, and one could not tell tears from raindrops. But perhaps that was the point.

Slowly, the man turned his face to the sky, and, as he did so, the moon peeked it's luminescent pale face through a gap in the rainclouds. It highlighted the face of a man, twenty or so, but he looked older somehow, as if his life had been wasted. He desperately needed a shave, and his bloodshot, pale blue eyes had bags under them. He could have been good looking, but clearly didn't take care of himself.

As the rain mixed with the real or imagined tears, the man muttered a name, barely distinguishable. "_Lucie_."

Sydney Carton was not the only one out that night, in the rain. There was anoter, a girl. Unnoticed by most, she was hardly more than a shadow, but with a bit more ability to be hurt.

She was also crying. Hunched in a corner, her tears flowed so freely that not even the downpour could mask them. Her face was dirty, and had the beginnings of a bruise on one cheek. Her tattered dress had rivulets of filthy water coming off it, and the red cap, ever present in those trying times, did little to hide the lank locks of hair. Even as she did, she suddenly yanked off the cap and sobbed horrible, heart-wrenching sobs into it.

The man, apparently hearing, walked slowly over to her. Gently, he turned her shoulder towards him, crouching down himself. The girl, however, just flinched and sobbed harder, turning away.

So, the man sat with the girl, until the rain let up, about an hour later. The moon came out and, it being almost full, gave quite a bit of light. The girl, seeing this, turned towards the man as if to thank him for staying with her, but instead just curled up in a ball, still crying.

Seeing this, the man hesitantly took her into a deep hug, and they sat there until both stopped crying.

"What is your name?"

At the question, the girl looked up at him and then averted her eyes. She mumbled, "Éponine. I'm called Éponine. You? What is such a bourgeois as your self doing here, comforting some girl off the streets?" She spat bourgeois out with venom, but the effect was halfhearted.

At this he held her tighter, and she could have sworn he was shaking. Thickly, he said, "I'm no bourgeois. The coat is- borrowed. I'm just a good for nothing alcoholic, and unable to live up to anyone's standards. But that's alright, where I am going will be far better than here. It will be a far, far better thing to do…"

"Oh. I may kill myself, so it doesn't matter to me."

The man looked stricken. "Why would you do such a thing?"

The girl looked up at him sadly. "The one I love loves another, but beyond that, he is to be- he is to be-" she sobbed out the last word, almost choking, "guillotined. I don't understand why, he would have helped storm the Bastille, his friends _did_ storm the Bastille, but still. His grandfather flad Paris. His friends, I don't know what happened to them. But does it matter? No- all that seems to matter is the Republic. I love the Republic, I do. But all it does is kill. La Guillotine is the grand new Razor of the Republic, and it shaves close, much too close." She laughed madly. "You need a shave! But now- all that remains are the heads, the heads and nothing more. I suppose I shall die too- of a broken heart. And if that fails, well, there is always a knife. Not so quick as the Grand Razor, perhaps, but that is the way of things, is it not? And you still haven't told me your name!" All this was said quickly, but the whole time, the girl had been crying again, tears streaming down her face as she laughed humorlessly.

"Sydney Carton. My name is Sydney Carton," said the man, looking at the girl with- not quite pity, but something.

"Ah! That is a name. But not a French name. I am French, but you talk strangely. English? I do not like the English, but does it matter? No; all that matters is the Guillotine. 60 heads a day, and some of them probably English. But they are all dead, all gone, and still Robespierre remains. And the People, let us not forget them. They are a bloodthirsty people, I should know, my father steals money from the dead ones, him and his friends. They are all called Jacques, you know? I should not be telling you this, Mister Englishman, but my father can't jurt me if I am dead. 60 heads a day! And I must die before him, you see."

Sydney nodded sadly. "of course, citoyenne," he murmured, "I am English, and I go to die for and Englishman."

Sydney stood up. The rain had left completely, and mist was rising from the Seine. The moon made the wet pavement glitter, as if silver instead of tar. He started walking again, towards La Force.

XXX

The Bastille wasn't big. It was immense. A sea of people- men, women, old people, even children from the streets-all in bright red caps, mobbed the prison. From the sky, it looked like a river of blood, gushing through the Paris streets, demolishing anything in its way. It seemed not to be controlled, but there was a leader of sorts. A swarthy man in a dirty overcoat, despite the mid-July heat, was shooting curses at no one in particular. He smelled horrible, looked horrible, but commanded the utmost respect from everyone.

"The Bastille! The Republic! The prisoners!" He yelled this over and over, his voice carrying over the red-capped sea.

Anyone who resisted the current was killed. As the Bastille was swarmed, the man hurried in, and up the stairs to a tower. With him gone, the people were like red ants, scurrying everywhere, knowing only to bite.

Another man stepped up to lead. Underneath his cap was a mass of blond curls and piercing blue eyes. He wore a vibrantly red jacket.

"Citoyens!" he yelled, "free the prisoners! Onward! For the Republic!"

The crowd roared in approval, shaking its fists and yelling, "the prisoners!" (**at this time, there were seven prisoners in the Bastille, who were seen as martyrs by the rest of the People of the Republic**) Unquestioningly, they followed the blond up the steps. Unknowingly, they were also following Defarge. (**for those who do not know, Defarge is the villain in ATOTC, as well as Madame Defarge. They sought out only to kill as many people as possible, all bourgeois. And he is looking for the evidence that will condemn Charles Darnay to death**.)

As the angry mob moved up the staircase, they made a lot of noise, audible from anywhere in the prison. Shouts of "the prisoners!", and "the Republic!" could be distinguished from the roar. Halfway up, they heard voices in one room. Forcing down the door, they burst in upon a strange sight. The previous leader (**remember, that was Defarge**) was completely ransacking the room, but carefully, as if he was looking for something.

Suddenly, he found it. Whirling around, he looked carefully at the crowd, led by the blond.

"We are the Republic. What are you doing, citoyen? For surely you know that if you are not for the Republic you are against it, and if you are not helping us, you are hurting us by not doing so?" This was echoed by the crowd, along with shouts.

Defarge narrowed his eyes at the blond, who stared defiantly back at him. "What of it, citoyen? I am finding…evidence. None of your business."

"All is the Republic's business, citoyen."

The man smiled widely, revealing yellow teeth stained from tobacco. "All will be revealed tomorrow." He strode roughly past, shouting, "the prisoners! Come!"

As the crowd shoved and swelled, Defarge found himself next to the other, the blond leader.

"Citoyen," he growled, "what was that? I am the leader, you have no right to question my goings-about. And in any case, we shall be glad of it tomorrow."

"I have no leader, citoyen, so it cannot be you. I am of the Republic, and that is all I need. I have renounced my family, everything I had, so that I may be a part of the grand new Republic of France. You cannot ask anything more!"

Defarge smiled again, this time with a wicked gleam in his eye. "There is one thing. The ultimate price would be death. Dying for your country. 'dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, non? It is sweet and right to die for one's country. What is your name, citoyen?"

The blond tucked a curl under his cap. He stiffened slightly, and said levelly, "Enjolras. Yours?"

But the man didn't answer. Instead, he just looked at Enjolras distastefully, with a trace of a smirk in his eyes. "Bourgeois," he spat, "we don't need anything like you."

And with that, he pulled a dirty knife from his boot and forced the blond, who looked horrified, back. The crowd noticed, for the crowd noticed everything. Several people tried to intervene. However, Defarge just yelled to them, "no! He's bourgeois scum! He deserves death, nothing more!"

It is amazing the way a crowd can be swayed. At this, they turned, calling for the blood of the person they had unquestioningly followed less than ten minutes prior. "Kill the bourgeois! Kill him!" they yelled. Only a few didn't.

As Defarge bound Enjolras, savoring the moment, a man with curly black hair burst through the crowd.

"No!" he yelled desperately, "no, you can't—"

The person next to him said indifferently, "Why? He is bourgeois! Did you hear his name? Enjolras! He's third cousins with the King whom we took care of!"

But the man would have fought the whole crowd, right then and there, had another not pulled him back and hissed, "no, R! Can't you see? They already have Marius, now they have Enjolras, if you act like this they'll want you too-"

"I don't care! Let me _go_, Bahorel! Let-me-_go!_"

All the while, Defarge and several men who called themselves Jacques **(okay, the Jacques need explaining. To avoid calling each other by name, and to keep themselves unknown, Defarge's 'henchmen' (for lack of a better word) were all called Jacques. I decided that Thénardier's gang should be in that number, if you recall from earlier.**) were forcing Enjolras down, out the Bastille and down to La Force.

XXXX

**I promise I won't kill Enjolras again! I promise! Did I do a good enough job explaining? IF not, please tell me! Next chapter coming soon- probably over the weekend. And I have decided to sign off with a quote, because I have just too many to put every one of them in our profile.**

**"There is a man who would give his life to keep a life you love beside you." **  
**― Charles Dickens, **_**A Tale of Two Cities**_

**does that quote need explaining? If so, tell me because i coud go on for ages and ages explaining it. Thank you! And happy reviews make my plot bunny, Robespierre (it's a long story), happy! Just saying...**


	2. Chapter 2

Une Histoire de Deux Vivres (A Tale of two lives)

Chapter Two

**Again- anything in bolded parenthesis is me explaining to those of you not farmiliar with ATOTC some things you might need to know. Enjoy, and thank you SO MUCH for all your positive reviews and support with this story! I never expected all that- thank you thank you thank you! Here is another installment. Don't worry, I don't think I killed anyone in this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Well, you guessed it, I am both Victor Hugo ****_and_**** Charles Dickens! So I am going to go be two dead guys from London and Paris. Bye now.**

**.**

**Yeah. Joking. I'm not Victor Hugo and I'm not Charles Dickens. I am- no, not Catwoman either. That's Fantine. Uhm, I'm just a teenage girl trying to show her love and obsession with literature about the French Revolution. So. DON'T SUE ME, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! I DON'T HAVE THAT KIND OF MONEY! Yeah. **

Éponine watched the retreating figure. He was walking slowly, as if there was something he was dreading. As he grew shadowy in the mist, one could barely make out a real shadow. And beyond that, a girl. She stood up, hesitated, and silently followed him.

Keeping to the shadows, the girl followed him until he reached, of all placed, La Force. There, he conversed with a guard for about five minutes. Most of the conversation was inaudible, save for one word. Three o'clock. (**ok. So, he was going up to inquire the time of execution of Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. And the guard is a spy who is helping Sydney continue with his plan to die for Darnay. Yeah. But the guard…I don't really like him because he is a coward, yet he helped Sydney. But I don't like Sydney dying, so…yeah.) **

He turned back, suddenly, and caught Éponine. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly.

"Following you. What else did you think I was doing? What are _you_ doing?" she shot back.

The man didn't answer. Instead, he entered a bar and ordered a bottle of liquor. (**Sydney is an alcoholic, I believe because Lucie doesn't love him. I read this and was like '!' because of the similarities between Mr. Carton and M. Grantiare.**) Slowly, he poured a glass. He looked very shaken, and almost reserved. Very determinedly, he downed the glass, looked at the bottle, and seemed to have an internal war with himself, staring at it.

Just as he seemed to be giving up, and reaching for the bottle, a grimy hand reached it first. Éponine grabbed it and, not even bothering for a glass, took a swig. It was hard liquor, and she put it back on the table, smiling grimly. It sat there, neither of them moving, each wanting to appear stronger and not take a sip.

Fifteen or so minutes passed. Suddenly, Éponine looked up to see the door shoved open. A disheveled man with a mop of curly black hair entered, closely followed-almost chased-by another, who seemed to be pleading with the former. But he just ordered a bottle of the same liquor as Sydney and sat in the corner, drinking. He tuned the other out completely.

"Courfeyrac?"

The man turned to face Éponine and Sydney. He had dark brown hair, and was relatively good-looking. He dressed well, compared to Sydney. Carton was wearing a black waistcoat and a very dirty light blue cravat. Courfeyrac didn't comment, but looked distraught. "Éponine? I guess you heard, then…"

"Heard what?"

"Oh, nevermind," he amended quickly, "just try to talk some sense into Grantaire with me, will you? He says he is going to drink himself to death. I don't really know what to do…"

Sydney spoke up. "There's no use. He won't kill himself, just get dead drunk, but no one can 'talk sense' into R," he said dully, "I have known him long enough to know that."

Courfeyrac looked up at him. "Who are you?" And then, he added, frustrated, "I'm afraid he will."

"Sydney Carton. I've drunk with R, that's how I know him. Why would he?"

Grantaire spoke tonelessly from the back of the room. "I will. I will, and you can't stop me." He hiccoughed and drank the rest of his bottle in one gulp.

Éponine looked at Courfeyrac. "Why is he like this? What happened?:

Courfeyrac looked down. Quietly, he said, "it's Enjolras."

"Darn right it is!" And Grantaire, yanking out the cork of his second bottle, added quietly, "he's going to die." He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. "They're going to kill him!"

Éponine looked shocked. "Him-_and_ Marius?" she whispered. Courfeyrac nodded, a tear trickling down his face.

"No…no…" Éponine was crying again. She looked up and said through her tears, "where are the rest of you?"

Courfeyrac replied, "Combeferre is writing something, trying to convince them to let Marius and Enjolras out. Bahorel is at his flat. R gave him a broken nose. I don't know where Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly are; I lost track of them after Bahorel and I had to subdue R. Jehan is at his flat, I think." Courfeyrac blinked hard.

"When?" Éponine asked in a dull voice.

To everyone's surprise, it was Sydney who answered. The man was staring at a fixed point somewhere and not, it seemed, paying attention, but he said flatly, with a trace of a sad smile, "three o'clock. Tomorrow." (**Remember- he knows this because he is planning to…sob…trade places with Darnay**)

XXX

La Force was nowhere near the size of the Bastille, but it was still big. And full. Enjolras was forcibly dragged to it, but once insice, he walked under his own power. He tried to make his point known, but no one listened. He was thrust into a cell. It was dirty, with grime, sweat, and seemingly the oppressive feelings that hundreds, perhaps, had occupied it before him, and all were now victims of La Guillotine. He was told that his execution would be at three o'clock, tomorrow.

The blond paced the cell. It took six steps in one direction, four in the other, six, four, to circle the cell. Six, four, six, four, six, four, six, four, six, four, in little rectangles, on and on and on and on and on. He sat, appearing to be deep in thought. Twelve gone forever. One gone forever.

At two o'clock, he heard someone approach. Curiously, he looked out the tiny barred window. Two men, one of them a guard, were approaching the cell directly across from his. The other man wore a black waistcoat, a dirty light-colored cravat, and and a white shirt. He was moving weakly, and his cap cast a deep shadow over his face, so that it was indiscernible.

The two men entered the cell across from Enjolras'. He could not hear anything that went on. After about five minutes, they reappeared. This time, the second man had fainted, and the guard was carrying him. The boots were the same, the coat was the same, the shirt was the same. But Enjolras' eyes, keen for every detail, noticed one thing. The cravat was knotted differently, hastily, and on the other side. A very subtle difference, and it probably counted for nothing. (**Okay, here's the part in the book when I tear up for the first time. And then I don't stop crying 'till the end…anyway. Sydney Carton has just gone in with the spy, Barsad, so that he could trade places with Darnay. He drugged Darnay, so that he could do it quickly. Yeah.)**

Fifteen minutes later, the guards came to get them. They were lined up and made to go outside. Enjolras was right behind the man, whoever he was. Next to him was a woman.

"Citoyen Evremonde," said the woman, "I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you before in La Force."

Enjolras watched the exchange.

"True," said the man, "I forget what you were accused for?"

"Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it likely? Who would think of plooting with a poor little weak creature like me?"

Enjolras frowned. Clearly, she was innocent. The Republic had erred again. Yet the Republic was flawless, was it not? But clearly it was flawed. Was it good? Was it even _right_?

He listened with growing creases in his forehead as the woman continued.

"I am not afraid to die, Citoyen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be, Citoyen Evremonde! Such a poor little weak creature. I heard you were released, Citoyen Evremonde. Is it true?"

"It was," said the man gravely, "but I was taken again and condemned."

"If I may ride with you, Citoyen Evremonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage." She looked up at him, and suddenly Enjolras saw doubt in her eyes.

"Are you dying for him?" she whispered.

"And his wife and child. Hush! Yes," said the man. Enjolras looked in almost awe at him. Was it better, to keep the family he was referring to together by going to die, or was it better to stay by the Republic? He was not so sure anymore. Everything had been violently changed when he had realized that the Republic, his flame, was not so perfect.

"O will you let me hold your brave hand, stranger?"

"Hush! Yes, my poor sister. To the last."

The woman nodded and they were all loaded onto a wagon. As it rolled through the Paris streets, the houses had flags- flags with red caps on the end, embossed with the words, "Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, ou Mort." Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death. Enjolras looked on the city, and it seemed to be soaked in blood for an instant, his mind playing tricks. Was it the last time he was to see it? The wagon rumbled on, and the flags waved, flags with only two options. And Enjolras knew that his was the latter. Mort.

**Cliffhanger! Sorry! And this chapter is really short, sorry for that as well. But, next time I update, we shall find out what happens! Yay! Please give me your thoughts- Opinions, ideas, constructive criticisms, happy reviews, feels-y reviews all welcome! Did I do a good job explaining? I was afraid I was giving too much away…And anyway, to the quote. **

**"Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death; - the last, much the easiest to bestow, O Guillotine!"**

**-Charles Dickens, ****_A Tale of Two Cities_**

**Sorry for the depressing quote, but I got inspiration from it…please review! It makes Robespierre (my plot bunny...I am going to post an explanatory story in a minute so that you can see...) happy!**


	3. Chapter 3

Une Histoire de Deux Vivres (A Tale of Two Lives)

Chapter Three

Disclaimer: IF YOU THINK I AM A DEAD WRITER GUY, THAT REALLY SHOWS A LOT ABOUT YOUR PERCEPTIVENESS. I AM IN FACT, NOT DEAD. THEREFORE, I AM NOT VICKY HUGH OR CHARLEY DICKENS. YEAH.

**NOTE OF THE AUTHOR, PRE: Well, sorry for the delay, I have been working at this stressfully for too long, non? But my plot bunny, Robespierre, took an unexpected vacation. Sorry about that. Here is the story that you have all been waiting for! Or not, I just like to think that way. Oh, and the cover art is my attempted fanart.**

As the wagon rumbled through Paris, the streets were full of revolutionaries that guffawed and mocked the condemned. It rounded a corner, the swells of people increasing. A young man with light brown hair and glasses was shouting something to the crowd. As the wagon made the turn, he pointed and yelled, "That's them!"

A sea of red-capped citoyens swarmed the wagon, taking control. It was ironic, a revolution against a revolution. The prisoners were freed, though they had no idea what to do. The young man stumbled, and was caught by Enjolras, who looked fervently around for someone. At last, he found him. The speaker, and another who looked stunningly like Sydney, ran up to them. In a hushed tone, the speaker, who was Combeferre, told them to put on the caps he carried. Then, they swiftly made their departure to the home of Charles Darnay.

When they got there, they were met with somber faces, though, and grave news. A tall, muscular young man was saying, "It's all my fault, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that-"

"It's not your fault, Feuilly, for the last time! None of us could have known. It's…horrible, and I wish we could change it somehow, but at least we have Enjolras."

"Yes, but now R's gone off somewhere, thinking that Enjolras was killed as well, and we just can't lose another-"

Enjolras cleared his throat softly, and the room immediately hushed. Jean Prouvaire stepped up and said quietly, "Marius- is dead. We didn't know until it was too late, I'm sorry. We thought he was in the same group as you, but he wasn't, and Feuilly, whose idea this whole thing was, is blaming himself, and- it's just all bad. Not really the "grand new dawn", I guess."

Éponine was sobbing quietly in a corner, and Sydney had walked over to her and was awkwardly comforting her, holding her and telling her that her love was in a better place. The whole atmosphere seemed conflicted, as the friends were glad to have their leader back but still very upset at the loss of one of them.

Enjolras hesitantly broke the silence. "How did you manage that?"

Combeferre smiled slightly. "Like Jehan said, the whole thing was Feuilly's idea. We- well, I suppose you could say we rallied the people. Crowds are an amazing thing, they can be swayed by words so easily. It wasn't that hard, really."

The other men nodded in assent. Enjolras opened his mouth to speak again when suddenly Courfeyrac burst in. He was a little out of breath. Everyone turned questioningly at him, and he swallowed, caught his breath, and said, "Has anyone got a key to R's apartment? It's locked, and I honestly don't know where else to find him at this point. I mean, if he doesn't want to be found, I guess there's not much we can do, but…it's worth a shot."

The others looked at Courfeyrac. No one, it appeared, had a key. Courfeyrac swore and said vehemently, "how am I supposed to keep track of him? Mon Dieu, I don't even know why it's me. I am going to try the apartment. Come on, if you want."

"I don't think it's wise to have Enjolras and- sorry, I forget your name…"

"Sydney Carton."

"Yes, I don't think it's wise to have Enjolras and Sydney Carton go there, there _is_ a slight chance they could be recognized.

The others nodded, and Darnay, the owner of the house, spoke up for the first time. "I appreciate all this, immensely, Carton, and the rest of you, but Lucie and I are moving back to England with our daughter. You are welcome to come- it is a wonderful country an you would be fine there…"

Sydney made a small noise, almost a whimper, at these words, but no one else spoke. After a pause, Enjolras finally said, "I am sorry, Mr. Darnay, but I cannot leave France. I shall perhaps go to Marseille, it is calmer down there and yet still the Republic. I shall change my name, and live a new life, much like yourself. Thank you for your offer, but I must decline."

Darnay nodded, turning to the others. They murmured, saying that no, they would also stay in France. Sydney turned away, the question was not for him.

Combeferre ended up accompanying Courfeyrac, as well as Bahorel, to Grantaire's apartment. They walked down side streets as opposed to roads, mainly, and after about twelve minutes, they got there.

Courfeyrac banged on the door. "Let us in!" he said loudly. No answer. Courfeyrac groaned. After several minutes and still no answer, he looked desperately at Bahorel, who grunted and pushed against the door with his shoulder. Again and again he banged, finally breaking the lock and, in the process, almost knocking the door down.

The apartment was a mess. It didn't smell great- like liquor, body odor, and vomit- and it didn't look much better. Empty bottles were strewn about, the oldest ones distinguishable by their coating of dust. Art supplies made haphazard heaps, pencils, paints, and such. The only neat thing was the final product, carefully stacked in a corner.

The men stared around. Finally, after it was quite clear that the room was not occupied by Grantaire, Combeferre said, "Maybe upstairs? I mean, we should check everywhere. It's for his own good."

Courfeyrac nodded uncertainty. The three men cautiously climbed the creaky stairs and opened the door that stood atop it.

XXX

**NOTE OF THE AUTHOR, POST: Sorry about the shortness of this chapter and the cliffhanger! Tell me what you think. I hope I did a good job- this one was tough. And I didn't even kill Enjolras, although I did kill Marius. Sorry… So yeah. Will probably update this again by the time the week is out, I don't really know. Hopefully Robespierre will come back from vacation. Reviews and suggestions do help. Questions, comments, and constructive criticism are great! Until then, this has been Marseillaise (and Robespierre the plot bunny who has been on vacation). And now for the quotes.**

**"I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me." **

**-Charles Dickens, ****_A Tale of Two Cities _**

**(that one doesn't really relate to the story, I just am feeling bad for Sydney and his unhappiness)**

**" 'I hardly seem yet," returned Charles Darnay, 'to belong to this world again.'  
'I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far advanced on your way to another.' " **

** -Charles Dickens, ****_A Tale of Two Cities_**


	4. Chapter 4

Une Histoire de Deux Vivres (A Tale of Two Lives)

Chapter Four

**Sorry for the slight delay! Robespierre I believe has returned (yay!). So, hopefully I shall be able to update more now. Plus, school's out, so I will have more free time. But, Psycho is going on a journey a long way away, and won't be able to update the Phantom of the Barricade today or tomorrow. Sorry. I don't know; she might have wifi or something and email it to me and I can post. So here is what happens next. And yes, Valjean and Javert and Cosette come into the story. They're just not really the main characters. Well, Javert has some action. Also. Yesterday (well, today at 3:00am) we picked people to be all the Les Mis characters. Somehow I was Enjolras ****_and_**** Grantaire (don't know. I fence and draw, that's about all R and I have in common), Feuilly, Bahorel (!?), Courfeyrac, and Bossuet (earlier I had accidentally gotten pen all over my face. I half fell, you see, and I was holding the pen. Yeah.). So….I really don't know…Here is the next bit! Thank you all for staying with me! The first bit is just a little fluff, Robespierre has been driving me crazy. Oh, and there's a bit of cussing in this chapter. Sorry. I don't like to cuss in my stories but I kind of feel like I needed to in this one. (wow, that was a really long note. They aren't usually that long!)**

Back at Darnay's house, Bossuet was trying to lighten the mood by choosing a name for their group. Darnay, Lucie, little Lucie, Dr. Manette, and the rest had left just prior.

"Definitely against Team Courfeyrac and Co.?" said Bossuet cheerfully. Earlier, this was the name Courfeyrac had suggested.

"What about the one Combeferre said? Les Amis de la Peuple? The friends of the people?" asked Feuilly.

They murmured assent, but, as Joly said, it just didn't have a good ring to it.

"Le Société de les Mal Aimé ?" suggested Jehan, "it rhymes."

"The society of the unloved? That makes us sound like no one likes us. Definitely not!" joked Bossuet.

"Les Amis de l'Abaissé."

Everyone turned to Enjolras, who had not spoken for a while. Bossuet smiled, astonished, and cried, "Enjolras! You made a pun!"

Enjolras nodded. "Yes, we can be known as Les Amis de l'ABC as well. Is that good?"

The others nodded.

Enjolras smiled and opened his mouth to speak, when the door was abruptly opened. A tall, menacing woman stood framed in the door. She was, of course, wearing a red cap, but there was the outline of a pistol jammed down the front of her shirt, and a knife in her belt. She had small eyes, a ruddy complexion, and straight brown hair in a bun. Her skirt was dirty and suspicious red stains on the hemline. It was Madame Defarge.

She scanned the room, obviously surprised at what she saw, and hissed, "where is Evremonde and his family? Tell me now or-" she jerked out the pistol and pointed it at the person nearest her, which happened to be Jehan, "or the boy gets it."

Everyone reacted with shock, apprehension, and confusion. Those sitting stood up suddenly, and Jean Prouvaire was staring down the pistol, not moving at all. Calmly, Mme. Defarge repeated herself.

It was Sydney who answered. Stepping in between the gun and Jehan, he said tonelessly, "I won't let you get then. You will never find Her, or her husband and child, and cause them pain, I swear." He looked her in the eyes, and reached out toward the gun.

In response, Madame Defarge's face twisted and she pulled the trigger. The shot echoed, and Sydney was thrown back, his eyes watering. He cried in pain and clutched at his chest, below his left shoulder, where blood was seeping out. Slowly, he pulled off his cap and pressed it to the wound. The reds mixed, one symbolizing freedom, the other bringing death, just as the Guillotine did. Freedom or death.

Sydney was whispering something. Joly and Jehan, the closest two, hesitantly knelt down, all the while keeping their eyes trained on Madame Defarge. Joly tried to stop the bleeding, removing his cap as well and applying pressure. Sydney waved it away.

"No…no, just end it…please…I have saved him for Her, and I should be dead. That is all. I barely know you…just end it…I won't be missed…"

But Joly vehemently shook his head, and continued to try and stop the blood flow.

Meanwhile, Bahorel had acted instinctively, pulling from his own belt a pistol and leveling it at Madame Defarge. To his surprise, it was Éponine who stood up and pushed it away. Pulling a knife from her clothing, she advanced towards Madame Defarge.

(**I apologize in advance for the most likely cheesiness of this scene**)

"You," she said angrily, "You! You made sure Marius was killed! You sent him there because of his name, because of his class, because of his family! You'll pay for him, and the others too! Sixty heads a day, and how many are you responsible for? A lot, you bitch."

Madame Defarge laughed angrily at the girl, and Éponine lunged. Clawing at the woman with an anger-driven craze, she screamed incoherently. Yanking the pistol out of her grip, Éponine went at her with tooth, claw, and the knife. Madame Defarge tried to pull the girl off her, at the same time trying to reach her own knife. She clamped her hand down on Éponine's neck, cutting off the girl's air.

Éponine dropped the knife. Madame Defarge smiled triumphantly, still squeezing the girl's windpipe.

Feuilly looked on helplessly, afraid to aid Éponine lest he hurt her accidentally.

On her last verge of strength, Éponine reached with her hand to grab the dagger from Madame Defarge's skirt. But, while grabbing the handle, she suddenly fainted. Madame Defarge, thinking her victim dead, released her and Éponine fell to the floor. But unbeknown to her, the girl was still holding the dagger. As she fell, it slipped into the evil woman's side. Madame Defarge stumbled backwards, and the heavier woman landed with a thud.

Feuilly looked questioningly at Enjolras, who nodded slightly. Grimly, the bigger man finished her off.

(**yeah, so the fight scene was cheesy. Sorry.**)

XXX

Courfeyrac entered first. The room was, as the rest of the apartment was, in utter disarray. There were pencils and paints scattered everywhere. A bed was in the corner, dimly lit by a grungy window, and, fully clothed and unmoving, with his feet hanging off, was Grantaire. An almost-empty bottle was spilled across the sheets by his outstretched hand. As Courfeyrac edged closer, he saw something horrible. A trickle of blood ran from Grantaire's dark hair down onto the bed, the red dark and ominous.

"No...oh no…will we tell them…" Courfeyrac, white faced, stared in horror at the scene. He turned away towards the others, who had been obstructed from seeing the blood.

Combeferre, seeing Courfeyrac's expression, crossed the room in a single stride and looked at the drunk. He gently flipped Grantaire onto his back, a worried look on his face. Kneeling, he grasped Grantaire's wrist. After what seemed to be the most tense seconds in the world, Combeferre sighed in relief.

"He's not dead."

Courfeyrac exhaled and sat down. Bahorel, however, was carefully examining the table by Grantaire's bed.

"Look," he said, pointing to the rough corner of the table, "right here, on the corner." There was, barely visible against the dark wood, a damp bloodstain.

It was then that they saw the picture, crumpled up as it was. Bahorel righted the chair, moving it and smoothing out the paper.

It was clearly quickly sketched, but frighteningly realistic. The scene it depicted was anything but pleasant. The edges were rough, and the eye was drawn to the center. It was Enjolras, hands tied, standing in front of a massive guillotine. His hair was loose, and almost a halo of light surrounded him. The eyes were piercing, staring at the deadly instrument.

Courfeyrac shifted his gaze back to the blood on the table, and swallowed. "What do you think happened?" he asked worriedly.

Combeferre said he didn't know, but they had to get Grantaire back to Joly or someone, fast, or they never would.

Bahorel nodded and picked Grantaire up easily. The cynic showed no signs of life, but Combeferre assured them he was still with them. As they walked back to Darnay's house, they took the fastest route possible, even though it went through a semi major street. They couldn't risk more time, and Combeferre didn't want Bahorel running because he feared internal bleeding.

When they arrived, it was worse. Éponine lay on a couch, unconscious, and there was a large woman lying dead on the floor. Sydney was in the corner, nearly dead from bleeding, and was not moving. Joly was doing something, crouched over him.

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to ask, but Bossuet got there first.

"What happened to R?" he asked worriedly.

Combeferre looked nervous and answered, "He's still breathing…"

"He's still _breathing?_ As in, that's _all_ he's doing? Is he okay?!"

Courfeyrac looked away as Combeferre said, "we don't know what happened. We just…came upon him lying on his bed, and there was blood on the table, and his head was…" he gestured to the gash partially hidden by Grantaire's wild hair.

Just then, Joly looked up from where he was kneeling by Sydney. "Mes amis…?"

Bahorel laid his friend down on the love seat and hastily turned. When he saw Sydney, he swore and said angrily, "what happened? Is everyone injured? First there's R, then I come in and see Éponine unconscious and some woman lying dead on the rug, and now this! IF you're fighting, at least let me help!" But his threatening tone was cloaked by worry, and he nodded, apologizing to Joly, saying in a more subdued voice, "what is it?"

Joly said in a small voice, "well…the bullet missed his heart, and lungs, but there's still a lot of bleeding…he doesn't have a great chance. And it seems like he doesn't care if he lives or not. I'm sorry…"

Jehan sat down heavily, saying that it was all his fault, that the bullet should have hit him instead. The others just looked in shock. They barely knew the man who was surrounded by the crimson pool on the floor, and now he might die.

"Is there anything we can do?"

"Try and keep him elevated, and pointing north. And press clean cloths into his wound and try and stop the bleeding, that's about it."

Jehan undid his cravat, handing it to Joly. The medical student left Combeferre with Sydney and walked quickly over to Grantaire.

He probed the gash, a worried expression on his face. "I'm so sorry…I really hate this…I don't know, though…The bleeding is horrible, and it might be in his brain. He might make it, but then again…"

The look on his face betrayed the slight hope that his words gave, though. The cynic's chances were slim at best.

XXX

At first, you might have mistaken the man for a wolf. But it was a man. He had cold, black eyes, dark hair with thick sideburns, and a straight nose. He seemed perpetually in a state of snarling, and his height made him formidable. His heart was wooden, for even an iron heart can melt. But the heart of Inspector Javert of the Paris Prefecture of Police was unable to melt, and seemingly unable to feel.

"Inspector, you realize this is of the highest priority. We cannot have these men about."

"Yes, citoyen, I understand. I will find them."

"Good."

Javert stalked out of the office. He obeyed the law, and only the law. So when the new Republic's laws said kill somebody, they were killed. Find somebody, and they were found. No if's, and's, or but's. It was black-and-white. So, he would find this Enjolras and Evremonde that they wanted. No questions asked.

**So the plot thickens! I killed off a major character and seriously injured two others. Sorry about that. What do you think will happen next? Speculate away! Please tell me what you thought- questions, comments, and constructive criticisms are welcome, as well as crazy reviews. Because I am known for those, so I'm not going to be hypocritical. Yeah. Do you like this? Do you like Les Mis? Do you like Tale? Have I inspired you to read Tale? Do you know what Tale stands for? Are you going to go cry because one hundred eighty one years today the barricades were dismantled? Did you build a barricade? Did you get pen on your face? Do you approve of this survey? Do you know who I stole the survey idea from? Are you Victor Hugo (you can't be because he is tied up in my closet)? And the quote! **

**"The cloud of caring for nothing, which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely pierced by the light within him."**

**-Charles Dickens, ****_A Tale of Two Cities_**


	5. Chapter 5

Une Histoire de Deux Vivres (A Tale of Two Lives)

Chapter Five

**I'm back with more! Thanks for all the awesome feedback, I love you guys. I stole the survey idea from Darci the Thespian by the way. And here is more things! And don't worry…well, actually, worry, but just read it and remember: fictional. Yep. Sorry this chapter is exceedingly short!**

**Disclaimer: Victor Hugo is in my closet, therefore I am not him. Charles Dickens…well, I'm not him either. I promise, if I was, I would tell you. **

"Éponine's awake!" The young blond looked relieved to report good news. Jean Prouvaire turned his head abruptly, facing the others.

Courfeyrac, looking relieved (though his usually smiling face was still drawn tight with worry), offered a hand to the groggy gamine on the sofa. She ignored it, staring with horror at the scene that met her eyes. Sydney, who had not been moved for fear of causing more bleeding, was lying on the floor while Combeferre feverishly wrapped bandages around his exposed torso. Meanwhile, Grantaire at first appeared to be peacefully resting on the love seat, but at further examination revealed the left side of his hair to be matted with blood, more of which had run down his neck and hid dirty cravat and shirt. Joly was anxiously looking on, while Enjolras sat looking very much like a statue that was about to be smashed. The revolutionary leader's face was pale, and his eyes looked almost dead. The fire was reduced to no more than a spark, now. Every so often someone would shoot him a nervous glance, that experience had taught them that Enjolras did not take to being pitied in any way.

Suddenly, he stood up. The room grew quieter as everyone turned to look at their leader.

Enjolras looked down, and it almost looked as if his eyes had tears in them. Quietly, barely whispering, he said, "I'm sorry. I was…wrong; I should never have dragged you all into this. I had no idea…"

Jehan made a funny half-step, as if going over to hug the blond, but stopped. The others just stared at him in shock, as if they had never before seen Enjolras admit he was wrong about something.

Enjolras nodded once, and sat down again on the chair by the love seat.

Combeferre, now satisfied with the bandages, walked over to Enjolras and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Enjolras looked up at his friends, almost a challenge in his eyes, a challenge to deny what he had said was true.

At length, Combeferre said, "no one knew what was going to happen, mon ami. And perhaps that's a good thing. Maybe it prevented something worse from happening. Just be glad you're alive, that Citoyen Carton is alive, and that R is alive, for now."

Jehan murmured his agreement, saying, "the flames that hold inside them passion are those that which are hardest to extinguish. They won't find you. We can get out of this mess, and you can go back to being a revolutionary."

Courfeyrac, trying to lighten the mood a bit, said, "well, the ladies like a bad boy, Ange."

Enjolras snapped, "don't call me that."

"It's not my fault you look like one! And the first part of your name lends itself well to puns. Come on, you made one earlier!"

Enjolras sat down and fumed. Everyone was silent.

XXX

Seven people. Seven people had escaped when the wagon carrying the prisoners had been taken over. Five had been easily recaptured. So, Javert had been assigned Enjolras, and Lenoir had to find Evremonde. The two inspectors had decided to check the Darnay house first, on the chance that Evremonde had returned home or left any sort of clue as to his whereabouts at all.

The fiacre was slow, and Javert was getting visibly impatient. He hadn't wanted to come at first, but had grudgingly agreed at length that there _was_ the possibility that the two fugitives were somehow together because they knew that they could trust one another.

At length, the fiacre jolted to a halt. Javert and Lenoir paid the driver, but asked him to wait until they came back, and they would pay him for waiting. The driver, seeing the uniforms, readily complied. He would wait for the next person to leave.

Javert nodded. Gesturing for Lenoir to wait outside for a bit, as backup, he raised a gloved fist and banged on the door.

XXX

_Bang. Bang._

Shattering the silence, the sounds came from the door, but no one had any idea who was making them.

"Open up! Police! In the name of the Republic One and Indivisible, open the door!"

Everyone stared at one another in shock. The police. The police were _here._ Enjolras stared at the door with such ferocity it seemed as though it should spontaneously combust.

It was Feuilly who reacted first. The orphaned worker was tougher than most, and nusually bright despite being self-educated.

"We have to stop them getting in that door," he said determinedly.

Bahorel nodded at him grimly and the two men grasped either side of the sofa Éponine had recently vacated. It wouldn't budge, despite their efforts. It seemed to be bolted to the floor. The banging on the door grew more forceful.

Suddenly, a voice said, "I must be dead. Did you all die, too? But I must be dead, must be, if you're here, Apollo. Not that I mind that you're here, just that we're all dead." All this was said quietly, while Grantaire stared dully at the back of Enjolras' head.

"No, we're not dead, but we will be if we can't keep this door from opening!" exclaimed a very irritated Feuilly.

Grantaire looked about. "Use this. Whatever I'm on. It'll keep them out. Don't mind me, no one ever does anyway." He then attempted to stand up. It didn't work, and he would have fallen badly had Enjolras not been standing right there to catch him instead. The blond looked, with something in between pity and disgust, at the man he was now supporting. He nodded at Feuilly and Bahorel, who moved over to the love seat quickly. It lifted easily, and the two men hastily walked it over to the door.

They were almost there when it flew open. The lock had been broken, and, silhouetted in the evening sky, stood Javert. He stepped into the room.

His gaze immediately fell on Enjolras and Grantaire. He looked surprised, but recovered quickly. The ten-odd people in the room seemed very unlikely to counterattack should Javert make some kind of violence. There was a man lying nearly dead on the floor with another seated by him, a weak-looking girl, a dead woman, a dead woman, and several other haggard-looking young men besides Enjolras and the stumbling man he had just released. Javert smiled. He would, probably, allow himself a pinch of snuff for this.

"Enjolras? You are under arrest by the Republic One and Indivisible, of France."

The blond looked angrily back. "Why? What have I ever done?"

"You were third cousins with Louis XVI."

"So? Man is not defined by birth. That is the whole point of the Republic, _non_? That people are created equal."

Javert's mouth narrowed, and he said angrily, "I don't want to have to hurt anyone."

The blond looked around at his friends, and of course they knew what his answer to that would be. They had the inspector outnumbered, but he could have had backup outside for all they knew, and there was a pistol in his belt. His brow creased, and he started to step forward when he was forcibly shoved backwards by Grantaire. Not expecting this, he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Shakily, Grantaire stood just off the line between the inspector and revolutionary. He had a pistol. Javert, noticing this, drew out one of his own.

"Why does that man have a bullet wound in his chest? And why is there a dead woman on the ground? I can add this as a charge against your friends and get them killed, too. Arrested for murder, how does that sound? Put the gun down, boy."

"No."

"Step. Aside. I don't want to hurt anyone, but if I have to, I will." He pointed the gun at Enjolras, who seemed to be frozen on the floor.

And then, several things happened at once. Grantaire lurched directly in front of Enjolras, pulling the trigger on his gun. He wildly missed, but the shock caused Javert to do the same. The bullet, still aimed for Enjolras, hit Grantaire instead, squarely in the chest. He fell back, landing beside Enjolras and unmoving.

Lenoir, upon hearing gunshots, burst in through the door. His own gun was drawn, and he pointed it at the first person he saw, which was Feuilly, who along with Bahorel had been close to the door. Everyone froze, at a standstill. Then, defying the gun, Feuilly stepped forward. He was positively shaking in anger.

"Murderer," he spat at Javert, "leave. Now."

Javert and Lenoir had completely missed Bahorel, so the twin fists that came like wrecking balls to their heads were total surprises. They fell, both knocked out, to the floor.

Joly, knelt by the pale Grantaire, looked up at everyone. The poor medical student had had a traumatic day, but he was somehow keeping it together.

Grantaire coughed up blood. Eyelids fluttering, he said weakly, "we all know how this ends. But it's okay. I'm the person you could spare. Not Apollo. So it's…all…okay…" In between longer and longer pauses, he said, "the Republic was doomed anyway. I guess it's good or bad. I'm just glad it's me…instead…of you…"

He closed his eyes and coughed weakly once more.

Joly, fearing the result, grasped Grantaire's wrist.

**Cliffhanger again, sorry about that. Do you think R lives or dies? I hope you are still liking this…I admit, I have been having a bit of writers' block…but not for angst! No, I believe I have become addicted to this. "You can be addicted to a certain kind of sadness." Um, yeah. That's me. Anyway, now for the quote.**

**" 'Remember these words to morrow change the course, or delay it for any reason, and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must inevitably be sacrificed.'**

**'I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.'**

**'And I hope to do mine.' "**

**-Charles Dickens, ****_A Tale of Two Cities_**


	6. Chapter 6

Une Histoire de Deux Vivres (A Tale of Two Lives)

Chapter six

**I'm back, guys! And I have an apology to make. One of two. Firstly: Sorry I haven't updated this in a while! Forgive me! You will, right? Hopefully. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAnd this is like my smallest AN ever! Oh, it's not, never mind. The stuff in italics is Carton's delusional mind, which I probably botched but oh well, I tried. And I apologize in advance, too. *winces* Don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I want to liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiivvvvvvvvve! Oh, and I also apologise for the shortness of this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Victor Hugo is in my closet, therefore I ain't him. Charles Dickens is dead and lived in London. I am (for now) alive and have never been to London. Yep.**

_How strong we are in our happiness and how weak he is in his misery his misery his misery misery misery…such a worthless fellow…many lives must be inevitably sacrificed…his misery…misery misery misery…see how _weak_ he is in his misery…never thought of him…he said Her name, he who was worthless to say Her name…how weak he is in his misery…his misery. Oh, his misery…La Guillotine, that sharp new female…for Her, and her husband and child…Liberté, égalité, fraternité, ou mort, the last much the easiest to bestow…why was he not dead, he should be dead…how _weak_ he is…take off those boots of yours and put on these of mine. So why was he alive? A life he loved…he loved Her…Her…Her who never even noticed him…how weak he is in his misery! His misery! He hurt, it didn't stop hurting, when would it stop? Never, never never stop his misery. All of it, hands touching him, he was gone…where was he? He had been saved, it was the worst of times…he could not live with this…what had she said? Hold my hand, o brave stranger…brave! No, he was not brave. He was weak, a worthless fellow…unloved…it hurt, so much, to be unloved…he just wants it all to end. Hands touch him, he doesn't want them, doesn't need them, wants to die, should have died, for Her…all for Her…what! He had said Her name…no, that was bad, he was unworthy to say Her name…and he was pierced, died for that other, by Madame Defarge….Defarge, he was the start of it all, Defarge…See how weak he is…no, Defarge is strong, Defarge loves La Guillotine, Defarge who condemned Darnay and who condemned him…Defarge who saddened Her, almost till death…Defarge! Defarge must die…no, too many people were already dead…sixty-three…the tale of sixty-three…it must be kept, the tale of sixty-three (_**that's meaning the number of people that were executed, and why Carton had to stay in the jail, because sixty-three people had to be killed. No more, no less, it was called the tale of sixty-three**_)Defarge and his wife for Enjolras and Darnay…and the Seamstress…what of her…(_**This was the young woman from before, who had been next to Carton and seen through his disguise**_) …weak little thing…no, she was strong, stronger than him…strong enough do die…for whom? For no one…for the Republic…curse the Republic! The Republic is a killer, that is all…six score heads, in the smoke of two pipes! The wood-sawyer! And Barsad! Barsad the spy, Barsad the traitor…Barsad who saved Her by saving Darnay by condemning him…saved him though because he could not live with Her unhappy…saved though death…what a funny notion….all of it for Her, everything…she is all he has, and he has her no longer. Misery, misery, misery. A life he loves. Her. Would it all ever _stop?

XXX

Joly looked up, his face betraying what he was about to say. The medical student shook his head mutely at the young men gathered around.

"He-he wouldn't have lasted very long anyway. The bleeding on his brain…he would have been dead within two days."

Enjolras said nothing; a tear rolled down his perfect cheek. Courfeyrac had sat down in a chair and the always present smile was gone, and in its place tears dripped down his face.

"We-we should bury him." Everyone looked at Combeferre, who had spoken.

Bahorel picked up the body, his face betraying his emotion. "And," he said angrily, "what are we going to do with the inspector? I don't care; I just never want to see him again. Or the other one," he added as an afterthought.

In a dull voice, Éponine said, "just drop them in an alley somewhere." She stood unsteadily, walking over to Bahorel. "And while you're at it, we need to get rid of that horrible woman."

"We can't just call a fiacre and ask them to go to some alley with two dead bodies and two unconscious policemen," said Courfeyrac.

"Just full of tact, aren't we," remarked Bossuet scathingly, "but you have a point."

Éponine lowered her gaze and said quietly, "I can find people to get rid of the woman. I- my father and his gang- they have no qualms about this sort of thing," she mumbled, "and the inspectors- there's an alleyway by my house where I could keep an eye on them and make sure they aren't illed or robbed until they wake up."

Combeferre nodded slowly. "That might work. And-" he bit his lip, looking away for a split second, "we can bury R in the plot over near the bridge."

Éponine gave a short bark of laughter, causing Combeferre to look at her questioningly. "What?" he asked.

"That graveyard…trust me, people _do_ rob graves. I've grown up over there, I know."

Joly stared at the girl, shuddering at the thought. "But…why?"

"Even the poor have to eat, you know," she snapped in return. "There's a black market for these things. Don't ask me any more questions."

Joly nodded, looking as if he was about to crack. "I'm sorry! And when you're all ready to clear out of this place, you might want to think about how we're going to move _him_!" he cried, pointing to Sydney. "Combeferre and I will, of course, do our best, but if this gets infected somehow…" he shook his head.

Enjolras nodded. "Éponine, you go with Bahorel and Feuilly to this alley. You can do more than one trip. Combeferre, Joly, Prouvaire, you stay with Carton. Bossuet, Courfeyrac, and I will go make sure R is- taken care of."

Courfeyrac spoke up. "I'm…sorry, Enjolras, I know that if any of us died you would want to…do something, but I don't think you should go out in public. I'm sorry…"

Enjolras sighed heavily. "He died…for me…I don't know why but he did…" he mumbled. No one else heard him.

Courfeyrac shifted awkwardly. "So…you aren't coming, right?"

Enjolras shook his head. "No."

Éponine nodded and said at length, "Bahorel, Feuilly, come on."

Bahorel nodded, putting Grantaire down and instead roughly grabbing Javert. The inspector didn't react, just limply dragged along.

Éponine opened the door, heading out.

XXX

The driver of the fiacre wasn't thick, but seriously. How long had those policemen expected him to wait? He sighed in annoyance, lighting his pipe.

When a ratty-looking girl opened the door and stepped out of the house, the driver half-choked on his smoke. But it was the men who came after her that really scared him. Two men, carrying between them what looked like-well, what looked like a dead inspector, followed Mademoiselle I-have-no-regard-for-personal-hygiene.

The driver was a coward, and seeing two muscular men walk out of what he thought was a deserted house carrying an officer of the law like a sack of potatoes made him quake with fear. Hastily, so fast that he dropped his pipe, he swiveled, grabbing at the reins and rattling off into the night.

Knowing that it was ridiculous, that _of course_ they weren't following him somehow, the driver drove full speed towards the Bastille, where he knew several of the "leaders" would be.

Panting, he banged his fist on the guardhouse door. It was opened almost immediately by a very upset-looking Defarge in a nightshirt.

"Do you know where my wife is?" he shouted into the driver's face.

"No-I-there's-Inspector Javert just got beaten up by two guys in the Darnay house!"

"That's where my wife went! Your name, citoyen?"

The driver frowned. "Jacques…DuPont," he said at last.

Defarge raised an eyebrow and slapped "Jacques" in the face. "Your real name, idiot."

The driver paled. "B-Benoît. Benoît Poisson."

"Fish? Alright, Fish, take me to this house."

"No!" It came out like a squeak.

"Coward." Defarge slammed the door, and muffled shouts proclaimed, "When I get dressed, have your behind ready to take me to that house!"

**Um, yeah! Quote:**

**"Drive him fast and to his tomb. This, from Jacques."**

**-Charles Dickens, ****_A Tale of Two Cities_**


	7. Chapter 7

Une Histoire de Deux Vivres (A tale of two lives)

Chapter Seven

**Aah ! I'm sorry, it's been so long in updating this! Please forgive me! Here's another bit. Please do tell me what you think? I'm sorry that it's short. Thanks for sticking with me, guys.**

**-Marseillaise**

**Disclaimer: Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens are not me. If they were well I sure as heck wouldn't be a teenage girl, sooo…voilà!**

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" asked Feuilly worriedly, "because from what I know, this neighborhood is…sketchy, to say the least."

"I'm sure," snapped Éponine, "I do live here, you know."

Feuilly kept silent for the remainder of the short trip. Depositing Javert none too kindly, the two men turned back. Éponine remained put, sitting down in the gutter and seeming unconcerned that her ragged dress was soaked. Bahorel, noticing her hesitation, said questioningly, "Éponine? Are you coming?"

Miserably, the girl said, "someone's gotta make sure he stays alive. You can find your way back here, right?"

Feuilly nodded confidently, and Bahorel uncertainly said, "alright, if you're sure…"

"Positive. Now go, I don't think you want that other one waking up halfway here. Though," she added humorlessly, "I don't think Bahorel or you would mind knocking him out again."

The two men left, and Éponine nudged the policeman with her foot. He showed no sign of moving. Deftly reaching into his pockets, she found several francs. Tucking them into her clothing, she spat on Javert's face, muttering, "that's for R." Then, she left.

Darting around a corner, the gamine reached a decrepit looking old row house. Not bothering to knock, she slipped in through the broken window.

The insides of the house were worse than the outsides. The paint was chipped and peeled, the corners were damp and mildewed. The only light was from a few dying coals in the fireplace, casting shadows and creating dark, ominous alcoves where, with barely any imagination, dark strangers could be lurking. Spider webs hung like gauzy curtains, and the only furniture was a lumpy queen bed in the corner, a rickety table, and three chairs. Two of the chairs had their seats kicked in.

"Hello?" called Éponine in her rough voice.

"'Ponine?" answered a smooth bass.

"'Parnasse?" she whispered.

A fit young man dressed in black emerged seamlessly from a corner. A daisy was in his buttonhole, and a dagger was thrust in his belt.

"Hello, Éponine. Have you got anything for me?"

She reached into her pocket and drew out one of the francs.

Montparnasse chuckled lowly and said, "you know it's not money I want."

Éponine slowly backed up, shaking her head. "no, 'Parnasse. –Please."

"How'd you get that money anyway? Still hanging around those rich boys? They better than me? Are they better at it than me?"

Éponine laughed humorlessly. "I don't know. But that's not what I came to tell you. It's…one of them…he's wanted. As we- as _I _was walking, I saw a sign. 2000 francs," she said quickly. "It's a lot of money, and…" she trailed off and mumbled, "I know how to get him. He- well, they all do- they trust me."

Montparnasse roared in laughter, grinning devilishly at Éponine. "You little traitor, I like you!"

Éponine turned away, a mixture of pride, disgust, and shame in her eyes. "It's for Azelma, and Papa, and Maman, and…you and me," she said quietly, "it's good."

"We could buy a grand bed with that, 'Ponine…"

"No!" she cried. "I mean, I have to go back now. They expect me. Come to the Darnay house- do you know where that is?"

Montparnasse nodded. "I've been eyeing it for a while. Nice place, plenty of valuables."

"Yes, well anyway, come at midnight."

Montparnasse bowed. "As you wish. That's in about an hour, I'll see you there."

Fighting back tears of disgust at herself, Éponine managed to get back just in time for Bahorel and Feuilly to return, toting Lenoir. When they arrived, they found Éponine still in the gutter, sobbing. Javert hadn't moved. Dropping Lenoir off, Feuilly looked at the crying girl.

"Éponine?"

She looked up. "I'm fine. It's just…Marius…and then R…they were all that kept me here, really. Sixty heads a day on La Guillotine, it should have been mine instead of Monsieur Marius'."

Feuilly frowned. "No. I'm glad you're alive, as are others."

Éponine snorted. "No one cares, and I like it that way. No one to cry if I just…slip away…"

"Don't talk like that. We'll figure something out."

"Yeah, like you _figured out_ a way to help Enjolras and Marius? Well I didn't see that plan work too well," she cut back.

"I-I tried my best! No one's happy that Marius died!"

"Yeah, right. He was barely in your little group, you made fun of him all the time. Don't just stand there, Bahorel, you know it's true too. Forget this. No one cares, and that's a good thing. Caring is overrated. _Caring_ just gets you killed, or your friends killed."

Feuilly and Bahorel looked mutely at her. Silently, they trooped back off to the house.

Éponine sighed miserably. If she was angry enough, if she burned all those bridges and didn't care, then no one would care about her, and no one would stop her from killing herself when this all was over. It would just be so much easier, less stress for everyone. And no one would miss just another dirty gamine.

She looked up to see the two men almost out of sight. Tripping in her haste, she ran after them.

"I thought you were making sure they stayed alive?" asked Feuilly carefully.

"My sister Azelma came by and she's doing it," lied Éponine. "Just…let's go to the house."

XXX

Javert woke up some time later, next to Lenoir in a filthy alleyway. At first, he looked aroud, unsure of his surroundings. He had been in the house…

He remembered distinctly, he had found Enjolras. Of that he was certain. And then blurred, another boy….oh, God. He had pointed the gun, he had panicked. He, Javert, had _panicked_! And the gun went off the other boy was in between Javert himself and Enjolras, and then he was falling, and not moving, and _Javert_ had caused the red blossom on the boy's chest, and…

Another had sobbed out 'murderer', and then…nothing. Had he _fainted_?

Doubtful. So, they had somehow knocked him unconscious, him and Lenoir, and brought them here. Javert shakily stood up. He was a murderer. There was nothing, it seemed, that could be done. The only answer was to go back to the house and turn himself in.

XXX

Joly looked up anxiously from where he was kneeling by Sydney Carton.

"The wound itself isn't as bad as I originally thought. The bullet is still in there and has to come out, but it's not infected…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"Then he should be better than this," said Comberre grimly.

"I know. He could beat this, he just…isn't fighting."

Just then, their patient woke, moaning softly and murmuring something about how wretched he was.

Combeferre leaned over. "…Carton?"

The young man's eyes fluttered open.

"You don't have an infection…" Combeferre began.

The other man nodded mutely.

"…but we- as in, Joly and I- are going to have to take out the bullet, and that's going to hurt. A lot."

Sydney nodded grimly. "Get on with it then, I suppose," he said monotonously.

Joly nodded at Combeferre, who said, "Jehan? Enjolras? Would you mind leaving the room?"

Enjolras nodded, and he and Jehan quickly vacated the parlor.

Combeferre untied his cravat and gave it to Sydney. 'Bite down on this," he advised, "so you don't bit through your lip."

Sydney took it.

Joly said, somewhat quietly, too Combeferre, "hold him down, if you will."

Combeferre did so, looking at Sydney with a sympathizing glance.

Joly look out a pair of tweezers. Slowly, he examined the wound before plunging in. Sydney screamed loudly, but Joly remained steady.

Fifteen minutes later, Sydney was unconscious, the bullet was on the floor, and Joly and Combeferre were trying to stop the bleeding. There wasn't an infection, and Joly pronounced that he would be fine if he had plenty of rest and didn't walk about or anything for a few weeks.

XXX

"Get on with it, man!" said Defarge impatiently.

The driver gulped and snapped his reins. The fiacre trundled off into the night, moonlit puddles spraying the gutters as it rolled through them.

Benoît Poillon drove up to the house. He looked back at Defarge, and back at the house again. He knew that there were at least two strong young men, armed, and he made a split-second decision. No man, not even Ernest Defarge, could take them on. He continued driving.

"Are we there?" asked Defarge impatiently a few minutes later.

"I…I" started Poisson. Then, 'I don't know. I forget."

Defarge made a face of disgust at Poisson. Grabbing the reins himself, he snapped them and turned around. The fiacre started back, and Defarge drove. Checking his pocket watch, he growled, "it's nearly midnight. They'll be asleep, hopefully, whomever they are."

Poisson nodded miserably. He had no intentions of meeting them again, asleep or not.

XXX

Éponine, Feuilly, and Bahorel entered the house at about quarter past eleven. Feuilly and Bahorel went over to Enjolras, and Éponine miserably perched on the sofa, curled in a ball.

Jean Prouvaire walked over to Éponine, looking concerned. "Éponine? Are you alright?"

Éponine looked up at him. Very trusting. "I'm fine. I-get Feuilly to explain to you. It's all you and your friends' fault anyway. I'm going outside for a bit. Don't follow me, I just need some time alone."

Jehan nodded uncertainly, and Éponine blindly ran back outside.

Outside, it was clear, and moonlight reflected off the puddles. She sat and waited. It was good and right, wasn't it? With the money from selling off Enjolras, she could help her family. Azelma wouldn't be forced to prostitution, and her mother and father might actually care…Maman could see a doctor…Papa only cared about money…and that left Montparnasse. She didn't love him, no. He liked playing with her, liked it when she was too helpless to resist. Éponine was easier and cheaper than prostitutes, for one, and Montparnasse liked to say that he was such a dandy. He was terrible, though, terrible and ruthless. Maybe at one time she thought herself special, and she still got a rush of pride at doing something for him, but it was sickening and tinted with blood. Montparnasse was a cold-blooded killer, a terrible young man capable of being charming. When he set out to kill, he wore a red rose. She shuddered, but she knew it was the only way.

Too late for second thoughts, though, because half an hour had passed, and a slim young man wearing black slipped through the shadows to the waiting girl.

**Gosh, I really hope you liked that! That was a pretty hard one to write, and I'm not entirely happy with it, but I think I did a fair job of describing Éponine's emotions. Review, pretty please? Thank you all for sticking with me! And to the quote:**

**"Good never come of such evil, a happier end was not in nature to so unhappy a beginning."  
― Charles Dickens, ****_A Tale of Two Cities _**


	8. Chapter 8

Une Histoire de Deux Vivres (A Tale of Two Lives)

Chapter Eight

**Okay, so this chapter was long and painstaking. I deeply apologize, once again, for neglecting this, but I just kept rewriting it because I was unhappy with it. I'll explain that to you at the end. Thanks for sticking with me, you guys rock. A little note: Jehan is a Romantic, with a capital R, which means that he, while still being "a shade lighter, intrepid, and yet intelligent", is fierce and can hold his own in a fight. I also have a backstory for him that shall be revealed in the next chapter.**

**-Marseillaise**

Montparnasse smiled at Éponine. "Hello, citoyen Éponine. Fancy meeting you."

She looked down, fighting back tears of disgust at herself, Montparnasse, and the world in general.

"This is the house. Take them quickly," she muttered, "and please, if…" she bit her lip. "If…your love to me meant anything at all, don't touch the man on the floor, the one with a bullet wound. He took it for me, and I…owe him, let's say…"

Montparnasse smiled cruelly. "But of course. On one term, that is."

Éponine looked at him coldly, fearing the term but, at the same time knowing that she could not just refuse him. Having been foolish, utterly foolish in mentioning Sydney, she had put him in jeopardy.

"Name your term, then, 'Parnasse."

"Let me have the flowery one."

"Who-what do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. I'm not an idiot. It's that society, they don't have a name, I think, but you hang about them, you know which one I'm talking about."

Éponine lowered her gaze. "Jean Prouvaire? Jehan? Why him?"

Montparnasse scowled and pulled his shirt collar do the side, revealing a long, white scar on his shoulder. From the looks of it, it had been there for a year or two. "He cut me, with my own dagger, defending a young girl." The assassin smiled darkly. "He'll be duly punished."

Éponine watched the man's face contort, and then looked at her feet. They were dirt y and cut, but she felt none of it. So it was between them, then. The man who had saved her from herself, and saved her from a bullet, who she had drunk with on many occasions with Grantaire, whom she knew was vulnerable and defenseless at the moment. Or, Jean Prouvaire, who she had known for years, poet, dreamer, thinker. Never really had long conversations with him, but still… She knew of Montparnasse's skills with the lingre. If Jehan could beat him, then Montparnasse couldn't turn in Enjolras, and Maman, Papa, and 'Zelma wouldn't get the money…no, Jehan had to go. She thought it coldly, like a machine, because feelings at this point wouldn't help her.

"Fine," she whispered. "Take your revenge. Don't draw it out…"

"'Ponine. I don what I _want_ with the man. Stay or leave, I couldn't care less. But don't interfere," Montparnasse snarled. Then, he thrust open the door, knife out, to the waiting men.

Joly, sitting next to Sydney Carton and facing the door, saw him first. The color drained from the medical student's face, and Combeferre noticed and turned. Montparnasse looked at them nonchalantly.

"Evening," he said politely. Then, pointing at them with the knife, he said, "don't worry. For your lives, anyways. 'Ponine won't let me touch your patient." He pouted slightly as he said this. Before they had a chance to respond, Montparnasse walked into the kitchen. Lightning quick, he was behind Prouvaire with his knife to the man's throat.

"Remember me, flower boy?" he hissed into the poet's ear, "you saved that pretty little thing of a girl and you hurt me. Now I get to hurt you, because fair's fair. But first," he said, raising his voice to speak to the group, "Enjolras, you _will_ come with me. Quickly and quietly. Anything else and I assure you your friend here will come to an extremely painful and unpleasant end."

Enjolras looked at Prouvaire, who was standing unflinchingly in the grasp of Montparnasse. His eyes seemed to harden, and he said, "I won't come with you unless you let Prouvaire go. If you do, I promise on my word to come as you ask."

"No!" exclaimed said Prouvaire. "Don't, Enjolras! He'll kill someone, and you're worth more than me-"

"Enough." Montparnasse cut off the man by squeezing his windpipe. "Now, Enjolras, that won't work. I'm going to kill little Jehan- yes, I know his name," he said at their surprised glances, "Éponine told me-I'm going to kill little Jehan here anyway, and if you don't cooperate, I shall kill someone else too. It's quite surprising how effective grief can be as a motivator, don't you think?" He turned towards the nearest person, a boy who had entered the room mere minutes before Montparnasse had come. "You. Your name?"

"Courfeyrac," the boy said softly, his eyes wide.

Montparnasse nodded to the group. "Enjolras, if you don't come quickly and quietly, I shall kill Jehan and then move on to Courfeyrac. You have ten seconds, and many friends to spare, so I would come now if I was you."

Suddenly, a voice hissed through the back, "the bobbies are coming!"

Montparnasse cursed and the hand holding the knife jerked, cutting Jehan's collarbone and causing him to cry out. Montparnasse smiled tightly. "The police are here. Allow me to kill your friends, and be brought back around to the guillotine anyway? Or come with me, and less of you shall be killed. Remember, Courfeyrac's life hangs in the balance."

"Don't let R's sacrifice have been in vain!" cried Jehan. Montparnasse silenced him by pressing the knife closer.

He walked out the door, leading Prouvaire as such. Enjolras took one last glance at his friends before turning and following Montparnasse.

"Enjolras, give me your hands," commanded the young assassin as soon as they were outside, having left through the back door.

Enjolras looked at Jehan and did so resignedly. Montparnasse threw the poet to the ground harshly, and placed a boot on his heat do prevent the poet's moving. At this, Enjolras made an indignant noise, but Montparnasse raised an eyebrow and the blond fell silent. From his pocket, Montparnasse removed a length of lightweight yet sturdy rope, and bound Enjolras' hands. Then, he yanked Jehan back up, put the knife once again to the young man's throat, and, pulling Enjolras by the blond's tied hands, Montparnasse walked across the streets of revolutionary Paris.

They reached an abandoned warehouse off the side of a ruelle, or alleyway, often called Ruelle de la Mort, or Alley of Death, because of the gang of men who often preyed there.

Kicking open the door, Montparnasse shoved the two hostages inside. Lighting a lamp and creating ghoulish shadows across the vast, not-quite-empty space, he smiled devilishly.

"Let the fun begin."

XXX

Benoît Poisson cowered as Defarge rushed the fiacre back the way they had come. The puddles seemed ominous, and the driver wanted least of all to encounter the men he had seen earlier. He thought back to his family, his little flat with his wife and two children. What would they do if he were to be injured or killed? Poisson had no idea. The sparkling new Republic, or constitutional monarchy, or whatever they were calling it now, hadn't made a lick of difference to him. Everything stayed the same for Poisson, and he didn't trust anyone. Not the puppet king, not Robespierre the Incorruptible, and certainly not Defarge. Call it cowardice, running away from danger, but Poisson like to say that bravery was only a kind way to say stupidity. _He_ wasn't in a position to be shaved by the National Razor, or in a position where the people could decide they wanted to undermine him. Benoît Poisson wasn't a total idiot, but he wasn't a mastermind. In his head, the way he saw things, as long as he ran from the action, he would stay alive. Sometimes, he joked that he was neutral by force, because either way he went he was too scared to continue- either for or against the new France. So he remained a fiacre driver, because even Jacobins needed to get from place to place occasionally.

Poisson went along with things not because he necessarily agreed with them, but because if your choices are to accept something new or die, he was too self-serving and cowardly to choose the "die" option for just about anything.

Rue de la Fantôme. Phantom's Road. The Darnay house occupied this road. Poisson's eyes widened in fear as they drove toward the house.

XXX

Walking through the moonlit puddles, Inspector Javert advanced on Rue de la Fantôme towards the Darnay residence. It was easy, terribly easy to find, and he walked up the long drive thinking to himself. He wasn't big on self-sacrifice in general, but he was in the wrong here. Or was he? They, after all, were the criminals and he had been sent to apprehend one of them…their blockading the door _could_ be seen as resisting, for sure. But nothing changed the fact that Javert had shot a presumably innocent young man. An armed young man, though… So had Javert killed him in self defense?

Javert paused, realizing he was at the front step. He sat down in the shadow of the eaves, a place that unbeknown to him had just been vacated by Éponine, warning of his very presence.

Dithering over what to do, he almost didn't see the fiacre approaching. When it came close, he stood up suddenly, and there was a yelp from the driver's seat.

"Oh, come on, Fish, it's not a phantom. Street name putting thoughts in your head, eh?"

Javert realized that two men were in the driver's seat.

"That said," continued the second voice, "who _are_ you? I've got a gun, so be honest."

Javert smiled without humor. "Inspector Javert, of the Republic One and Indivisible of France. And you, citoyen?"

"Earnest Defarge. And Benoît Poisson," he added as an afterthought.

Defarge. He had helped to lead the Bastille storming, and had been the one to convict Enjolras. Javert, somewhat surprised, nodded.

"Are you here for Enjolra as well, then?" he asked tonelessly.

"Actually, this was the last place my wife when. She came to apprehend the rest of the Darnays."

His wife. The woman lying dead on the floor. "I'm sorry, citoyen, but the young men inside have murdered your wife." Even as he said it, Javert smiled inwardly. Now, he had a charge worthy of death to all of them. This was working out well. The boy he had killed ws due for death anyways, as a murderer or accomplice of murderers.

"She's…dead?" Defarge gasped. Then, his face hardened. "They'll pay."

Javert nodded again. "I'm afraid so, and yes, they will. I'll arrest them immediately, and you can rest assured that they will have an important meeting with the National Razor."

Defarge nodded. "I'vbe a gun, and I can help you. How many are there?"

Javert thought. "Seven. Plus a girl, who may or may not be on their side, as she was unconscious, and a badly wounded man."

Grimly, Defarge pulled out a pistol. He patted another one on his right side, and the two approached the door.

XXX

Courfeyrac had tears streaming down his face. He was sitting in a chair in the kitchen while Combeferre gently massaged his shoulders. The others were loosely gathered around, in various states of emotional breakdown. Bossuet was trying to comfort Joly, but was hear tears himself. Feuilly was staring a hole in the wall, hardly showing any outward emotion. Bahorel looked like wanted to punch someone.  
"I-he-I just get back from- burying- R, and then…that man bursts in and holds a knife to Jehan's throat, and he gets away with Enjolras and Jehan, and we already lost Marius, and now…" he broke down sobbing, his shoulders shaking with the effort of his cries.

Combeferre reached down and hugged Courfeyrac. Shaking, he let Courfeyrac grip him back. The center had always been incredibly tactile, and the comfort of his friend helped, even if he didn't show it.

Les Amis de l'Abaissé, as Enjolras had dubbed them, were grouped as such when, for the third time that night, the door burst open.

**So! I actually have two alternate plots, that go in different ways, but they rest on whether Jehan lives or dies. Where he lives is shorter, and a bit less finalized, and where he dies it's a bit more Gothic, and lengthier. Not that the story is anywhere near over, Jehan's death is just a hinging point. So, review, please? I love to know your opinions, plus any additional comments, constructive criticisms, and the like. Until next time, here's the quote.**

**"Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see triumph."**

**-Charles Dickens, ****_A Tale of Two Cities_**


	9. Chapter 9

Une Histoire de Deux Vivres (A Tale of Two Lives)

Chapter Nine

**Okay, so this chapter was long and painstaking. I deeply apologize, once again, for neglecting this, but I just kept rewriting it because I was unhappy with it. Thanks for sticking with me, you guys rock. A little note: Jehan is a Romantic, with a capital R, which means that he has a bit of a dark side. Éponine…what can I say. I don't want her to be an Eppie-Sue. Thanks to TheIbis2010, Phoenixflames12, and Om for their dedicated support!**

**-Marseillaise**

Javert and Defarge burst through the door. The foyer seemed empty, and from the strangled sobbing noises coming from the kitchen, they headed there.

Defarge entered first, gun raised and a hard look on his face. Combeferre looked up at him. Low and threatening, the boy spoke. "What do you want?"

It was just then that Javert entered, causing a cry of outrage from Feuilly. The worker glared at Javert intensely, as if daring him to challenge them.

"Where are the rest of you?" Javert asked, his gun fully visible.

Courfeyrac looked up at Javert. His eyes red with tears, he spat out, "gone. That man came and dragged them away. Are you happy now? We haven't done anything. Get out."

Javert opened his mouth to argue that yes, they had done something; they had murdered or helped to murder, but changed his mind at the last second. "What man?"

"What man?" exclaimed Feuilly sarcastically. "The man that burst in- rudely, I might add- just before you did. Are you saying you didn't see him?"

Javert recalled the shadow he had dismissed as his imagination. What little color his face had regained drained. The law was his first duty; he could deal with these boys later. He only needed Enjolras, and if the man had a hostage, then he was duty bound to protect him.

"Defarge? Stay here," Javert said after a pause. "Don't let any of them leave. You may shoot if and only if they attempt to escape or harm you."

Defarge nodded, somewhat grudgingly. "And you?"

"I? I must do my duty," said Javert in a strained voice.

XXX

Montparnasse cut a frightening figure, silhouetted against the light. He was still clutching Jehan's arm, his knife secreted away beneath his clothing.

"Citoyen, I commend you. Now, sit in the chair," purred the villain to Enjolras, who looked around, spotting a chair and obediently sitting on it.

The simple act of compliance seemed to scream against Enjolras, and all that he was and stood for. Veins protruded from his neck, and his jaw was clenched.

Montparnasse, noticing this, smiled cruelly. He quickly walked over and secured the blond to the chair with a length of rope. Then, he turned to Prouvaire.

Reaching inside his belt, he pulled out the knife. "Bonsoir," he snarled, lunging in.

Prouvaire stepped backwards, but it was difficult to judge distances looking into the muted light. Montparnasse was on top of him in seconds.

"I want to hear you scream," he hissed in the poet's ear, "but first…" he took the dagger and violently ripped it down Prouvaire's chest. Warm blood bubbled up, and the white shirt the prisoner was wearing was stained scarlet.

Prouvaire didn't fight the darkness. Soon, he was unconscious. Enjolras made a noise, straining uselessly against his bonds. Agitated by the sound, Montparnasse left Jehan bleeding on the ground and went over to Enjolras. He took out the knife.

The blond's eyes widened in fear, but all the assassin did was cut a thick swatch of cloth from the bottom of Enjolras' shirt. Silently he wadded up the material and, with his other hand, tore off another long strip. Pinching Enjolras' nose until he was forced to open his mouth to breathe, Montparnasse pushed the wadded cloth inside.

Enjolras tried to spit it out, but he was too slow. Montparnasse took the long bit of cloth and, ratcheting it back against the blond's head, made sure that it could not be spat out. The only noises the miserable man could make now were muted grunts.

Satisfied with his work, Montparnasse reached over and picked up the light. Chairs, tables, and other blurry objects gloomily entered into view, but left Enjolras in the dark.

Darkness enveloped the blond. It was stifling, and it eliminated the only sense he really had to rely upon, sight.

Before, he had contained it, barely, but with only the omnipresent darkness looming in and crushing on all sides, Enjolras felt a warm bubble of panic rise up in his chest. Small places had somewhat terrified him even as a small child, but as he grew and became more mature, he had recognized that the fear was irrational and had therefore tried desperately to stifle it.

_You are in a large room. If you must fear, fear for Prouvaire, for your friends. Do not waste time on irrational fears. _

Enjolras closed his eyes tightly and clenched his muscles, relaxing them one at a time while imagining he was washing away stress and worry. It was a technique that Combeferre had taught him, and it usually worked. But this was not a usual time. En route to being accused and likely killed for something he couldn't help, one of his dearest friends about to be killed before his eyes, this was hardly usual.

Still, the dark and his bonds pressed tightly on him. Enjolras could not escape the tight ropes, and he could not escape the dark. Even his own mind tormented him.

When his eyes were open, the dark seemed to ooze into his every pore, but when they were closed, flashes of the recent horrific events flew by.

_Grantaire, flinging him aside to be shot instead, a calm and determined look on his face. Éponine when she had learned of Pontmercy's death, and the deadened expression on her face. Jehan, the bright and eager poet, being held at knifepoint. _Unbidden, images sprang to his mind, tormenting him worse than Montparnasse ever could. All his fault. If only he had been killed before, who knows how many lives could be spared.

As Enjolras endured the agony of his mind, Montparnasse had found what he was looking for, a dusty, sturdy table. It was about nine by three feet, and about three feet high. With a grunt, the assassin dragged it the distance back to where Prouvaire lay and Enjolras sat.

Opening his eyes, Enjolras welcomed the dim light. His pupils, wide and afraid, contracted slightly, and he shook his head to rid his vision of the few blond curls that had slipped out of his hair tie. Forgetting for a second about the gag, he attempted to speak, and failed. Montparnasse found this extremely amusing. Enjolras lowered his gaze.

Montparnasse produced more ropes, from a box, and laid them to a side. Heaving up Prouvaire, he laid the limp young man on the table. Enjolras made a grunting noise of pleading, but the fit young man in black ignored him.

Knotting the ropes with a sickening relish, Montparnasse secured Prouvaire to the table just as the poet began to wake.

"Hello. Glad to see me?" sneered Montparnasse.

In a weak voice, the poet replied, "damn you."

Montparnasse grinned, showing yellowing teeth. "What a fun toy it will be. A pity I shall have to kill it."

"You're mad," whispered Jehan, wincing when Montparnasse ran the knife daintily along his chest and touched the previously inflicted wound.

Enjolras watched the exchange wide-eyed, unable to say anything.

A gleam of silver in the candlelight. A scream of agony from the poet. A fresh line of blood, not so deep this time but painful, had appeared along the upper arm, from the shoulder to his elbow. Montparnasse traced the taut muscles of his prisoner delicately with the knife, relishing in the shivers and nearly-shed tears.

"It shall be fun, hurting you," whispered Montparnasse. "Yes, I shall like hearing you scream."

XXX

Éponine sat curled up in a gutter, eyes open but neither seeing or perceiving. Dank, smelly water soaked through her dress-if the torn garment could still be called that- and her hands were scratched and bleeding.

"Damn the world," she said scathingly, trying to sound strong. However, her voice cracked on the last word, and she couldn't hold back her tears. Angrily, she berated herself. What had she _done_? Montparnasse was controlling and demanding, but he claimed that he really did love her. Moreover, there was a time when she had loved him, a time before Marius, when she was convinced it was real. But that time was no more. Now, she relied on their relationship, tolerating his abuse, just to feel that there was someone who needed her, someone who cared.

A wave of sadness suddenly washed over her so intensely that she gasped. Crushing, it screamed, _friends are for caring, for being relied upon. What friends _were_ for. She had no friends now, that much was certain. After all, she had just killed two of them, as certainly as with her bare hands._

Fresh tears erupted at the thought. Fragile and broken-looking, the slim girl with matted hair, haunted eyes, and a tormented soul sat looking like the nearest thing to hell on earth.

"What have I _done?_" she cried aloud. It was an unthinkable evil, to murder another, especially one's friend. Éponine was no stranger to death. When she was eight, just after the high taxes had finally forced her family out of its home in 1783, she had seen her first real dead person. Her father, angry and drunk, had shouted at the two little girls and baby boy. Éponine, used to nothing but pampering, had frightened and run outside. The winter air was harsh, but the small girl still had, at the very least, her warm clothes.

Too afraid and prideful to go back inside and too cold and miserable to do anything, she had curled up next to an older woman and fallen asleep. It was only when she woke, barely alive herself and with several frostbitten fingers and toes, that she realized the woman was dead.

Later, there were times that she lured, people out, knowing in the back of her mind that Montparnasse would kill them but choosing to ignore it.

Still, not being a stranger to something doesn't mean you like it. And it certainly doesn't mean you want it for your friends.

Éponine's dirty, ragged fingernails bit into her palms as she clenched her fists and sat, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

It was about then that she realized she had not had any sleep (unless you could count the brief time she spent unconscious) for almost two days. Fatigue and stress had worn down her nerves, her defenses, and her mind.

Suddenly, the stress overwhelmed her. In sobbing, strangled breaths, she began to hyperventilate, her chest heaving and her sobs literally wracking her body and forcing her over. Waves of pain seemed to crash into her mind. She had killed them. They had _trusted_ her. _She had killed them._ She was a coward, a failure, stupid, she was good for nothing. She didn't deserve them in the first place. She didn't deserve them, and they had respected her. She was even their friend. She should be the one to die, not them. Her life, was worthless, she was a dirty old rag amongst stronger, cleaner cloth. Breathing became difficult. Her mind clouded over, and black spots pervaded her vision. She was gagging, dying, writhing in the turmoil of her mind.

A wink of silver in the mud. Éponine scrabbled around in the overflowing sewer water until she pulled out a penknife. Without thinking, she took it and pressed it into her upper left forearm. She kept cutting until the prick of pain smashed through her emotions. The pain kept her grounded. She could focus on it, limit her thoughts to the stinging and warm wetness on her arm.

It felt good. It felt _real_, deserved, a dark stain to match a dark soul. The pain was welcome; she embraced it.

Miserable, wet, tired, distraught, and in pain both physical and emotional, the girl sat in the gutter waiting for the relief she was sure would never come.

XXX

Benoît Poisson stood grounded. Defarge and- that other inspector type man; her couldn't remember the name- had gone inside. To flee or not to flee? The rational parts of his mind said flee, but he was half-afraid of them catching him, even though they were on foot.

Idiot! Go now! He hurried to the fiacre and snapped the reins. The vehicle sped off into the night, Poisson driving almost recklessly fast.

Just as he rounded a corner, he stopped short. A girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, was lying, sobbing, in his path. Somewhat annoyed and anxious, he got out and walked over.

"Citoyenne?"

"Leave me to die, citoyen," she replied in a rasping, utterly broken voice, "leave me to die, or finish the job quicker yourself."

Poisson didn't know what to say. "I-what is it?"

"They're dead! _Dead_, all because of me."

A voice inside him told Poisson to leave, not to get involved with this girl's problems, to hurry back to his wife and children, but for the first time in a very long while, he ignored it.

"Come with me," he said, all traces of annoyance gone, pity replacing it. He took her arm to pull her up, then released it as he realized it was lined in bleeding scarlet. The sight of blood made him queasy. Still, he swallowed and, stooping, picked her up. Carefully placing her in the back of his fiacre, he sped off to his house.

When he carried her inside, his wife, Cécile Poisson, embraced him.

"Thank God you're back," she said. "I was beginning to worry."

Smiling and giving her a light kiss on the head, he nodded, then going to fetch the girl. Explaining in a low tone to his wife, he then carried her in a nd placed her on a sofa.

Sighing, he said quietly, "the Republic will be the life or death of us all, God save our souls."

**Well! I hope you enjoyed that. Poor Éponine…Reviews, constructive criticisms, and comments are welcome. I have decided on whether or not to kill off Prouvaire…but you'll find out next chapter.**

**-Marseillaise :)**


End file.
